


The Falling of the Leaves

by travellinghopefully



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, mostly angst, some smut, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-27 00:52:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5027359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apologies to W B Yeats</p>
<p>Was writing this (Sunday night angst - what can I say) when read prompt from @ifljlc - so added that part in - this is a multi chapter fic - it does not end happily</p>
<p>Clara dies, the Doctor does not deal with it well (look none of us are going to deal with it well)</p>
<p>There is a strong time travel element to this story - bear with me </p>
<p>Only one chapter for now, at least 3 more to follow - but I have other prompts, fics and promises to fulfill</p>
<p>No smut in first chapter</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ere the season of passion forget us

Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us,  
With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.  
W B Yeats.

It hurt so badly he couldn’t breathe. He grieved every day for the day she would be gone, every day, even whilst she was still with him. He discounted every moment of joy and bliss, measuring and finding it wanting against the loss.

Her hand touched his face, and he wanted to lean into the touch, he wanted to rest his head against her. He wanted to take her hand, drop soft kisses on her palm until she shivered. Take her in his arms and lay her down on soft grass in a sunlit meadow. Winter surrounded them, but, for him, she was always his summer. 

And still he did nothing. 

He fretted, he urged her to find anyone who wasn’t him. She didn’t leave and he didn’t act. He burned in her presence when he remembered his dreams, and knowing he didn’t sleep he felt his thoughts were more shameful. He was binding her to him, he did everything she asked, he refused her nothing – and that was reckless folly. 

She was making him a better person, but at what cost?

No more planets, no more risk, no more adventure, he should drop her home and never return. She’d get over him, she’d move on, she’d have a life. She’d be alive.

He did nothing.

UNIT would help, they always did, the ones he left behind when the pain was dragging him under.

He did nothing.

She had friends, she had a family, people who loved her. She would be fine. She would be safe.

He did nothing.

He was selfish. Her smile was a drug he would never get enough of. He tried to tell her, immortality is just watching people die, “the people you love”, unspoken.

1150 years of self denial. He could deny himself her. Every year, every hour, every minute, every second he thought of her. The feel of her skin under his fingers, the so slight weight of her in his arms, the deep liquid depths of her eyes, the promise of her lips. 

Why had he given the girl the Mire medi-kit? Because he knew something, he remembered something that hadn’t happened yet? Why didn’t he give it to Clara? Make her immortal? Keep her by his side? Because it wasn’t his choice to make? He couldn’t understand or unravel his own thinking. 

He paused, drew breath, and forced himself to say the words, he loved her.

He knew a tidal wave was coming, one that would engulf him. He’d long since abandoned prayer, but if he hadn’t he would have asked for death, to be pulled down and not resurface. Living without Clara wasn’t something he wanted. 

They burned across space and time, the ballad of Clara and the Doctor was a song that was sung and he wouldn’t listen to the words.

The last day came, too ordinary, too common place, too unremarkable. 

She was there, vibrant, potent, alive and then a void. 

Aching, hollow, empty, black, pointless.

There was no where he could go, not the cloud, not the monastery, no where he didn’t see her, didn’t remember her.

Oh, the echoes, the echoes of her, they haunted him. On one day, for one moment he considered that thought but she wasn’t her, none of them would ever be his Clara. 

He did what he said he would do, he climbed in his box and he ran and he ran. It never mattered how far or how fast, because his memories were there with him.

He would have burned galaxies for her.

He revisited no when and no where that they had been to. There were peoples and places countless beyond number, he let them fall between his fingers like sand.

His only thought was Clara.

He had been a fool, what little time they had, he could have spent it better, he could have given her the choice, he could have stopped them both running so hard and let them stop and see what was in front of them. The pain wouldn’t be any less, but the memories would be so much sweeter. She could still have rejected him, still have said no, but he’d taken that possibility from both of them. He was an idiot.

Memories returned. He didn’t seek them out, he actively fled from them, but the memories returned to make his soul twist, his heart break again. 

They were standing in the Viking village. The baby was crying. Clara gathered the tiny girl into her arms, nestling her against her chest, crooning to her, stroking her face with her fingers. The look in her eyes as she gazed into the baby’s eyes. She had turned to look at him then. They had stood there, unspeaking.

He had done that, he had taken her away her children. He had taken away their children. He knew, he knew, there would have been children. Her beauty and grace, his height, their brilliance.

He wept.

Centuries maybe? Still alone and he made the decision. Laws, rules, Reapers, time, what did these things matter? What mattered was Clara, his Clara, he would give her the choice and the consequences could go to hell.


	2. Mayflies/Like Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More angsty angst - the Doctor begins to put his plan in place to save Clara after centuries alone.
> 
> Slightly longer than the first - and, Clara is alive.
> 
> The next two chapters may be fluffy, but remember as it stands, this doesn't end happily....

He made his decision, the solution would work, it had to work.

“I thought I was seeing you tomorrow?”

Those words were nearly enough to rip his hear out, enough that he almost faltered and couldn’t continue. Tomorrow, he’d been oblivious, on that that day he’d thought they’d have tomorrows, years of tomorrows. He’d celebrated Christmas with her when she was, frankly, old – they had years ahead of them, and then they didn’t. He would not be cheated of time. She was there, and then she was gone, as ephemeral as smoke. What was it that Ashildir had said? How many Clara’s had he lost. He knew what she meant, but this Clara, his Clara, he wouldn’t lose her.

And it was all he could do not to sob, not to throw himself into her arms, not to fall at her feet, to beg her. He didn’t know what to say, what to do. He didn’t say, if I don’t see you today, I don’t get to see you again, ever. I don’t get to hold you, I don’t get to kiss you, I don’t get to tell you that I love you.

What he managed to say.

“Come on, let’s go.”

He held out his hand.

Don’t let her ask why. Don’t let her ask anything. He didn’t trust himself to say anything else, he couldn’t look in her eyes. He tried to control the trembling as her fingers found his.

The words he said to Rose kept echoing in his mind – “my entire family, my entire planet, did you think it didn’t occur to me to go back?” This didn’t break the rules, this didn’t count, it couldn’t. This would work. This didn’t change time, this just made the best of time, it wasn’t cheating. He was a Time Lord, that had to mean something.

Back in time, both of them, together, before her death. It wouldn’t change her death, he would circumvent it. She could have a whole life, they need never go near that day. And he knew she would ask questions, she was his Clara, he would find answers some how, he would tell a story, he had always been good with stories. The day would come when she would demand to see friends, family, her students, demand to go back to the life she had – how to tell her that it didn’t exist, her future was gone, slipped away like a mayfly. He wanted to tell her then, that he understood, he understood how precious and beautiful she was, because her life with him was so fleeting.

He could bear the cost to himself. Never touching her, never opening his mind to her, never taking the risk that she might see, that she might see her death. River, oh River, he could never share himself with her either, he never wanted her to know that on the day she had died he hadn’t known her, he never wanted to show her, her death, show her that he was powerless to save her, show her that she had died saving them, show her that he hadn’t held her, hadn’t kissed her. Could he never be enough for the women in his life? No, he could bear the cost.

He wanted to say over and over that he loved her, not take the chance that he would leave it too late again. What if is love wasn’t enough? What if she wanted to choose death? He’d had centuries to see what that looked like and her death was no longer an option.

He had chosen a planet sufficiently technologically advanced that even going back 300 years still made it a perfect spot to call home. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used that word, it sounded alien on his tongue. Home. They could have a home. Together.

She could work, they could work, neither of them ever needed to.

He couldn’t let her death be now, be so unremarkable, so meaningless, counting for nothing. They hadn’t had enough time. Would she understand? Could she? No more teaching, no more gran, no more dad, no more friends? There would be new friends, new students, him, a family.

When he gave her the choice, what would she choose? Having reached this moment, he still wasn’t sure of any understanding. Could you ask someone to make this choice?

62 years wouldn’t have been enough, he had already been eking out the time they spent together. Allowing decades to pass between the days they spent together. Was he treating her like the treasure she was, or was he trivialising her? Centuries of asking himself the same questions over and over and the answers became no clearer.

And here he was, and here she was, and he was saying nothing. He was bowed over the console, head in his hands, his whole body shaking. The point where all attempt to reason ended? Her arms wrapped round him, and he sank to the floor, taking her with him, sobbing incoherently, save for the words, “Clara, my Clara.” And he knew she wouldn’t let this pass. He had kept himself so contained, so controlled, indifferent, alien, cold, and now one moment and all his passions were spilling from him. He kept his head buried in her lap, if he looked at her...

He wouldn’t say anything today. He wouldn’t ask her. Today would be an ordinary adventure. He would wait until tomorrow had passed. Two days at most, maybe a week, at most a month, just so he would know that she wasn’t going to be ripped from his arms. He would wait, looking for the temporal rift he was certain this wouldn’t cause. They would race ahead of it. There were other worlds in the past, there were almost world’s inside the TARDIS if it came to it.

He wouldn’t ask for more than 62 years. Enough time for children, grand children, to watch them grow. They didn’t have to be theirs (and he knew he was lying.) He wouldn’t tinker with her life, although the medical care on the world he had chosen would, could mean that she might live longer than anywhere else. Any day more was better than none.

Just tell her you love her.

She didn’t have to choose him.

They could have a home, a conventional one, doors, floors, windows, a garden.

They could have a dog or a cat, both, whatever passed for those here.

She didn’t have to choose him, she just had to choose to stay alive.

The pictures of their children that seared his mind, the days of love, the laughter, he tucked all that away in a corner of his hearts. Too much was at stake for him to be sentimental.

Just tell her you love her.

He hadn’t moved from her lap, his sobs had changed to a keening whimper. She was trying to soothe him, her fingers were running through his hair, her mouth was pressed close to his ear, telling him whatever it was, it would be all right, she was here, she wouldn’t let him go.

He wouldn’t skew her choice. He was tempting fate enough. He could wait to tell her he loved her. He just needed her safe. He just needed her alive.

Surely there were enough echoes of Clara, that this choice, Clara hidden in the past, that wouldn’t be a paradox, would it? He refused to imagine Reapers, some thoughts were too much, too many coals were heaped on his head already.

If she didn’t choose him, he would go away, he was so very good at running. He would know she was safe and that would be enough. It would have to be. Alive, and he’d have told her, and she would know and she would have made her choice. 

Let her choose him.

How much to tell her, what to leave out, did she need to know he loved her, always had, and always would?

He could pop back, watch over her, unobtrusively, every so often, make sure she was still safe, make sure she was happy. He wouldn’t intrude, he may even wear another face, much as he loathed the word, he would spy. What man would she want to be with? What woman?

What if tomorrow she died again?

Here?

What then? 

Would he go back? 

Again?

This would be different, this would be better, it had to be. She wouldn’t die alone, she wouldn’t die without him, she wouldn’t die without someone holding her and telling her they loved her. She shouldn’t have died alone. No-one should die alone.

He howled in her arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience over updates - I made myself some prompt cards (if they work for Clara and the Doctor).
> 
> I have 10 active wips (lets forget the stray prompts), so naturally, I updated the last one first - I have so many notes for Artau, it has the potential to be a book, I did remember that plot only exists as a vehicle for the characters, not the other way round....still....
> 
> Toys has all the notes it needs and it is still awaiting its update, it'll be worth it....
> 
> As for the others....they are all still live, except maybe Two times first - I know what happens, but not quite how to put it into words.....
> 
> I am considering a story wall in my spare room - although if I print out some of the possible pics, I'll be arrested.
> 
> So, as always, 
> 
> Hated this - tell me
> 
> Loved this - tell me (still a comment whore)
> 
> Really loved this - share
> 
> And, always, love each one of you who reads - never feel you can't share your thoughts - thank you.


	3. Fire and Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, sorrow, smut, sorrow. Probably have a box of tissues handy.
> 
> That covers it
> 
> This time with apologies to Robert Frost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fire and Ice - Robert Frost
> 
> Some say the world will end in fire,  
> Some say in ice.  
> From what I’ve tasted of desire  
> I hold with those who favor fire.  
> But if it had to perish twice,  
> I think I know enough of hate  
> To say that for destruction ice  
> Is also great  
> And would suffice.

He remembered the weight of his first born in his arms. His hearts beating so fast that he thought they would burst from happiness. The touch of his wife’s mind against his, the touch of their child, a moment of such bliss, if only time could have stopped. It felt so precious.

It shouldn’t have been so fleeting, they should have lasted forever. No father should outlive his children. They shouldn’t have been lost, they shouldn’t have been gone. 

He felt the astonishing strength of his fierce grip on his finger, the eyes he knew couldn’t really focus staring into his. He’d never known love like it, fierce, joyous, terrifying. He promised in that moment to be the best father, to protect them, to cherish them, to nurture them, to surround them with love.

His love had been boundless, his smiles unending. His wife and he had grinned like fools at each other, unable to believe that between them they had produced something, someone, a son, so perfect. Like any parents, their son was more handsome, more special, more glorious than any other son – no other parents had a child like theirs. 

His joy didn’t diminish. They had more children and their love grew, not the fierce heat of first passion, but the love of endless accumulated moments that had distilled something transcendent between them. 

Again, if only time had stopped, he needed no more moments than these.

Still his joy grew, he felt the pride of seeing his children grown, brilliant, outstanding and finding love in return. He felt he’d only blinked and there, his first grandchild was placed in his arms and his wife and he grinned at each other like fools again.

It couldn’t get better? Surely?

There were years of perfection, he should have inscribed the memories on stone, his mind too unreliable, too fragile, he should have been more careful of them. He should have held each moment like the rarest jewel, but then that wouldn’t have been living. 

He couldn’t have imagined that this was his allotted span of happiness in a life so long lived. 

He felt each one of them burn in the Time War. He felt their shared minds ripped from his, and he was less. Their last moments replayed over and over. 

The feel of their fingers in his, their soft breath against his face, their hands in his hair, their shrieks and laughter as they ran and played – burned. 

He fought against the dream that gripped him, against the blankets that were drowning him, smothering him. 

The only place they lived – in his dreams. He longed for sleep, yearned for it, the memories nothing but sweet torture.

..............................................................................................

Awake in someone’s arms.

Someone holding him.

Someone comforting him.

His tears falling freely and he almost let his mind race into the touch. Aching from millennia of loss of loneliness and then, Clara his Clara held him and he couldn’t do it.

As he pushed his mind away, he pulled Clara closer. He wanted to give her perfection, they were clumsy, awkward, messy, frantic, just as love should be. She pulled his hair, he pinched her skin, their clothes tangled, they laughed in a breathless heap. She brushed the tears from his cheeks and finally they kissed.

He wanted to kiss her and touch her everywhere, all in that single instant. Each time his lips moved from hers, he felt the loss and his mouth hungrily resought hers. He craved everything, nothing was too much, each sound she made, her nails raking the flesh of his shoulders, her legs wrapped round him. 

Patience was good, but they were both too far beyond that. He knew what she didn’t, that he had nearly waited too long. 

Despite the urgency, burning and throbbing through his veins, he tried to take it slow, tried to make it last.

Clara was fierce in her pleasure, marking him, her mouth hot and hungry, her teeth sharp and heavenly. Everywhere she licked and sucked and touched, he just wanted more. 

Their bodies ignored their masters, grinding against each other, chasing each perfect moment of friction, wanting only more.

Above his repeated prayer of her name, the Doctor finally heard Clara’s words.

“Doctor, please.”

Her hand was on him, and he used all his concentration, all his will power, not to lose it right then, not to just give in and thrust against her touch. He allowed her caress, the stroke of her fingers, the exploration exquisite ecstasy, until he had to plead for her to stop and he held her hands captive and lowered himself between her legs.

He breathed her in, glorying in the heady scent, he brushed his nose against her, nuzzling her and then slowly kissed her thighs, working deliberately slowly from inside her knee, to almost where she wanted him. He nuzzled her once again and felt and heard her protests as he repeated his tortuous path over her other thigh. She writhed against him, and finally her hands broke free of his grasp. She buried her hands in his hair, her nails scraping over his scalp causing him to shiver deliciously.

Using only the tip of his tongue he dipped to taste her, she moaned, his groans were little less. She was perfect. Using the whole of his mouth, his lips, his tongue, he gently teased her, circling, probing, pushing, until her hands pulled against his hair, setting the rhythm that she wanted. 

He gave her everything and more. He felt her fly apart and held her anchored in his arms. He kissed a repeating pattern over her stomach and thighs, circling with his thumbs over her hips, holding her, murmuring his love and her name as the aftershocks left her and she returned to herself. And she was pulling him to her, her mouth on his, her hand stroking him again, her grasp surer, the sensation incredible. And she was positioning herself over him and he was lost in the depths of her eyes, trying to relax the grip of his hands on her hips.

As she sank down onto him, as she paused to adjust, as she rolled her hips, he swore his hearts stopped. Still longing for her lips, no amount of kisses enough, as she began to move against him, he trailed a path of kisses down her throat, until he found himself hovering over her breast, unsure, until she arched against him, grinding down, clenching him within her. He teased her nipple with his tongue and lips, feeling it harden, exulting in the cries she made. He wanted to taste the sounds and as his mouth found hers again, his fingers skilfully brushed against her other breast. 

Her movements against him increased, and still his only focus was her pleasure, her desire, her ecstasy. He moved his hand between them, touching her, knowing already what she loved and needed. He felt the ripple of her muscles against him as he made her fall apart again. Slowly, so slowly he thrust against her, into her, his hands returning to her hips, lifting her against him, lifting her with him. 

The long forgotten fire coiled deep within him and he chased the flames, wanting nothing more than to be consumed. Clara moved with him, her arms wrapped tightly round him, her lips, his lips, kissing each other whenever they had breath. Lost, leaning into each other and she was holding his head in her hands, telling him she loved him and that was the moment. 

Nothing but light and bliss and his Clara.

Four heart beats, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four and Clara recoiled from him, propelling herself backwards and across the room. Horror, revulsion, fury, all flashed across her face.

“I’m dead, and you chose this?!?”

He had known loss, this was so much worse.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading
> 
> Hated this (you should have) - let me know
> 
> Loved this - let me know
> 
> Really loved this - please share


End file.
